yards, and I’ll hold it out for a gold merk; what more would ye have of eye, hand, lead, and gunpowder?” 

 “Oh, no more to be wished, certainly,” said the Lord Keeper; “but we keep you from your sport, Norman. Good morrow, good Norman.” 

 And, humming his rustic roundelay, the yeoman went on his road, the sound of his rough voice gradually dying away as the distance betwixt them increased: 

 “The monk must arise when the matins ring, The abbot may sleep to their chime; But the yeoman must start when the bugles sing ’Tis time, my hearts, ’tis time.  There’s bucks and raes on Bilhope braes, There’s a herd on Shortwood Shaw; But a lily-white doe in the garden goes, She’s fairly worth them a’.” 

 “Has this fellow,” said the Lord Keeper, when the yeoman’s song had died on the wind, “ever served the Ravenswood people, that he seems so much interested in them? I suppose you know, Lucy, for you make it a point of conscience to record the special history of every boor about the castle.” 

 “I am not quite so faithful a chronicler, my dear father; but I believe that Norman once served here while a boy, and before he went to Ledington, whence you hired him. But if you want to know anything of the former family, Old Alice is the best authority.” 

 “And what should I have to do with them, pray, Lucy,” said her father, “or with their history or accomplishments?” 

 “Nay, I do not know, sir; only that you were asking questions of Norman about young Ravenswood.” 

 “Pshaw, child!” replied her father, yet immediately added: “And who is Old Alice? I think you know all the old women in the country.” 

 “To be sure I do, or how could I help the old creatures when they are in hard times? And as to Old Alice, she is the very empress of old women and queen of gossips, so far as legendary lore is concerned. She is blind, poor old soul, but when she speaks to you, you would think she has some way of looking into your very heart. I am sure I often cover my face, or turn it away, for it seems as if she saw one change colour, though she has been blind these twenty years. She is worth visiting, were it but to say you have seen a blind and paralytic old woman have so much acuteness of perception and dignity of manners. I assure you, she might be a countess from her language and behaviour. Come, you must go to see Alice; we are not a quarter of a mile from her 

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